


Ritual & Routine

by sidewinder



Category: Foo Fighters, The Police (Band)
Genre: Community: slashthedrabble, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 04:51:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17460953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidewinder/pseuds/sidewinder
Summary: Just an ordinary gig, complete with the ordinary pre-gig tensions.





	Ritual & Routine

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Slash the Drabble community challenge #512: Ordinary (or Not).

Another night on tour. Another ordinary gig for the Foos, like countless past performances.

Not the biggest they’d ever played, not by any long shot. Not even far from home; they could sleep in their own beds tonight. No rarities in the set, no new songs. No special guests to surprise the audience—Stewart was only there for moral support and to enjoy the show.

Yet Taylor, waiting in his dressing room, looked like a spring wound too tight and ready to snap.

Stewart knew better than to tell Taylor to “just relax”. That was an impossibility. Stage fright was a very real condition and one more drummers suffered from than any others might think. Hell, it used to wreck him as well—when he was younger, and hungrier, and still gave a fuck about screwing up.

And back in those days, there were plenty of ways to deal with the fear. Coke yourself up so you felt as high as a mountaintop, infallible, a fucking tower of power. Or numb yourself out on booze or pills until the voices of doubt in your head fell silent. He’d tried everything, knew Taylor had, too. But these days Taylor steered clear of it all and had to face his fears—the fears of _all_ drummers—head on and stone cold sober.

When the drummer screws up, the whole band comes crashing to a halt. You can ignore a sour note on the guitar, a singer forgetting a line or two. But miss the beat and the train you’re driving goes right off the tracks.

“An observation,” Stewart said, attempting to draw Taylor out of the anxiety Olympics clearly racing through his mind. “You bands today are far too civilized. Could use a good brawl or pranking before the gig to loosen things up.”

“You mean, like the time you broke Sting’s rib right before playing Shea Stadium?”

“That’s a bit of an extreme example, but yes. We should go hit catering and egg Dave’s dressing room for shits and giggles.”

Taylor shook his head and managed a tight smile. He reached for his water, chugged down a swig, then grabbed a pair of sticks and tossed them Stewart’s way. “How about you limber up with me instead,” he suggested, grabbing another pair and launching into a rudiments run on his practice pad.

An easy request, one Stewart could happily grant him. Basic patterns burned into muscle memory, meant to warm stiff joints and loosen fingers. The drummers meditation. They played until a knock came at the door, followed by _“Ten minutes!”_

Taylor stood, stretched, and let out a deep sigh. Stewart rose to his own feet, then offered a gentle kiss and hug. “You’ll be fine.”

“Right.”

“Go burn the house down. Raise some dead. And when it’s over I’ll be waiting to fuck your brains out.”

“Promise?”

“Hell, yes.”

Taylor headed out, Stewart grinning after him. Maybe he’d grab those eggs, anyway. Dave was a good sport; Dave would understand.

 


End file.
